Go down, go down, hot sun!
It's time to leave the gun,
The noose around the throat
From Winder's brutal rope,
And the rage of sunken shadows
On the field of battle.
Go down, go down, hot sun,
By the ribbons and metals won
Where the General's hand grows colder
And corpses to bone run
In the darkest Valley of God
That gives weight to the checked gun.
It's time to meet up with Grant and Lee
Who stood up to war so much
Before halting at Appomattox,
At a forest left to us.
Go down, go down, hot sun,
As you must.
by James Wm. Chichetto
... who is a freelance poet, with eight books of verse to his
credit, and works appearing in The Native American Poetry
Anthology, The First Abbey Wood Anthology, The
Boston Globe, The Boston Phoenix,
The Colorado Review, Gargoyle,
The Manhattan Review, Poem,
The Paterson Review. He is related to combat
veterans of the Korean War and World War Two; and teaches at
Stonehill College.